This is the version of him I didn’t know I wanted. The bossy version. The commanding version. The weak-for-me version. I lean forward, but he halts my forward movement with the hand cradling my jaw. We have a brief, intense standoff before he allows me to brush his mouth with mine.
I go fast.
He doesn’t.
Intentionally slowing me down, he tilts his head and tongues my bottom lip. His hands slide down and around my back, and he pulls me close for a kiss that says I missed you so neither of us have to.
He pulls in a sharp inhalation through his nose and releases me, then watches my mouth for a suffocating beat. Fragmented thoughts swim in my head as I try to figure out why, exactly, it isn’t a good idea to tear his clothes off and ask him to take me on the kitchen counter.
“Stop that,” he warns.
I grin.
“Dinner?”
“Am I dressed okay?”
“Better than okay.” He scans my dark jeans and sweater and boots, his gaze burning every inch of me like a flame. “We should leave before I make good use of the couch. Or the island.” Before I can chime in with my wholehearted agreement, he takes my hand and leads me outside. He locks up with his own key while mumbling, “The dining room table looked sturdy.”
“Easy, Kingpin,” I tease as I take his hand. “I’ve been here like ten minutes.”
He narrows his eyes in a silent scolding, sending a thrill of excitement through me. Our bantering has always been an aphrodisiac. At his car, an ice blue Mercedes S-class, he places a final kiss on my mouth before opening the passenger door for me.
I watch him round the car, his breath visible, his eyes snapping around at his surroundings. When he settles into the driver’s seat, he brings cold air with him. I shiver, unsure if it’s in reaction to the weather or his potent presence. When the engine purrs to life, he sends me one final, mysterious glance.
“Let the adventure begin,” he says and then pulls away from the curb.